


Warm Blood

by benniebebbie



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: (technically) - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Coping, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, The Future Past Timeline (Fire Emblem), and also their dead parents, mentions of the other child units, owain and brady are brothers, very lightly implied lissabelle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:08:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29521329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benniebebbie/pseuds/benniebebbie
Summary: Cutting the bridge was easy. Accepting whatever came next was the hard part.
Relationships: Azur | Inigo/Eudes | Owain
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Warm Blood

Suicide.

This is suicide.

The bridge is cut, hanging precariously over an infinite valley. When Inigo glances back he can only imagine how far down it goes. The depths are shadowed in swirling fog, like whirlpools that will pull him in and swallow him whole if he makes even a single misstep. His foot loosens a rock that plummets, and plummets, and if it hits the bottom, he doesn't hear it. Not over the roaring wind and the blood pumping in his ears. He looks over at Owain, who stares ahead at the encroaching band of Risen. His brow is creased, and his hand grips the hilt of his sword with white-knuckled strength. He takes a breath. Inigo sees the bob of his Adam's apple as he chokes down whatever doubts have crawled up his throat. So this is where it ends, is it?

Inigo draws an arrow from his quiver and readies it. His hands shake.

When he looses the arrow it just barely misses its mark, mere inches above the heart, or whatever hideous, inhuman organ sits in place of one. The Risen he'd hit raises a hand and snaps it in half, leaving only the splintered tip of it still lodged in its shoulder, intact. Inigo sucks in a breath, and reaches for another.

Owain's hand touches his shoulder. "I'll ask you not to lose your nerve in the most critical moment, my friend," he says, digging a heel into the dirt to steady trembling legs. "There are people relying on us to make it out of this alive." His voice betrays him, cracking at the end, but he's right.

Inigo owes this to him. He owes him all the fight he has, and if he's to die today, then he might as well die fighting. Inigo inhales. He pulls the string of his bow back and aims, this time right between the glassy, empty eyes of a Risen.

Exhale.

Release.

The Risen stutters for a moment, and falls.

And so begins the onslaught, the beginning of the end.

Except, it doesn't end. Not there. Not when Inigo had expected it to.

No. The truth of the matter is far more sinister. Yarne and Brady have managed to slip through the cracks and escape, leaving their allies behind in the throes of battle. The Risen are scattered across the valley, secreting thick black tar into the rain-soaked soil. Dozens of them, lying motionless. In the middle of it all are Inigo and Owain. They’re both still alive, for better or for worse.

Inigo has long shed his quiver, armed only with a sword that hangs from the sheath on his belt. Half of his vision is a stark red where blood dribbles down his bangs and into an eye that he screws shut. His body is stiff with bruising and shallow puncture wounds. At least one of his ribs must be broken, and a leg drags as he hauls both himself and Owain towards another bridge at the other side of the valley. It seems centuries away from them.

Owain's condition is far worse.

His hair and face are stained with blood and dirt, and his torso is almost entirely purple through the open tears in his clothing. His breathing is labored, wheezing painfully every few minutes. Instead of speaking -- soothing Inigo with reassurance that they're still alive, and the light of hope hasn't been snuffed yet -- he coughs up blood that drips down his chin. He can't even muster up the strength to hold on properly. His arm hangs, gnarled and twisted, over Inigo's shoulder. Owain's fated sword hand is limp and useless, as if barely even attached at the wrist.

If he survives, he probably won't ever use it again.

"Mother… Are you watching? Are you proud of me?" Owain chokes out against the wind that whips across their faces. Inigo’s left leg locks for a moment, and he stumbles, but doesn't fall, refuses to if it means letting go of Owain. He carries on, pushing his feet to keep moving forward. No matter what. "Are you waiting for me? I hope you are," His voice cracks.

Owain makes a sound almost like a hum, though more scratched and guttural. Inigo's chest feels like a cage. "All I’ve wanted for so long is to see you again… To be held by you again." His throat contracts as he chokes down a sob. Inigo flinches at how pained it sounds.

He can’t take it. “Stop talking like that,” he says, sauntering towards a bridge that only seems to drift further away from them. “You’re going to make it, Owain. Brady can heal you when we catch up.”

“Inigo -”

“No!” he snaps, insistent. The anger shocks even him, and he sucks in a breath before continuing, putting on the smoothest facade he can manage. “You were never meant to be buried in Plegian soil, my friend. You belong in Ylisse, with Lucina… And Brady, and Severa, and…” He has to take a breath, exhausted. His legs feel like they might buckle any moment, but he won’t allow it. If he just thinks of this as a dance, then he can persevere. He knows he can. It’s the same as learning to stand on the very tips of his toes, or to perfectly balance a twirl on one foot. This is nothing.

If it’s possible, Owain slumps even more over his shoulder. He’s fading, fast. “Inigo… Please…” The cracked, shredded remains of his voice are desperate, pleading. Inigo can’t take it. Not after his parents, his dear, beautiful mother. Not after coming so close to making it this time, victory a hair’s breadth out of reach.

“A little longer,” Inigo promises. The bridge isn’t far now, blessedly. If they’re lucky, and Inigo’s stamina holds out, they’ll make it to where Brady and Yarne are camped out at the Ylissean border by nightfall. “Just hold out for me a little longer, would you?” Tears pool at the edges of his vision. Any logical thought is lost to him. All that’s left is to pray, and hope that somewhere, someone hears him.

“Naga… Are you still with us? Do you have any power left to spare?” Dark spots gather in front of Inigo’s working eye. He continues walking. “If you were to use it here, it wouldn’t be wasted. If you give us this… One more day… We can stop Grima. We can. I  _ know  _ we can. I’ll give…” He coughs up a substance much thicker than anything in his lungs ought to be.

“I’ll give my life to you. Everything I am would be yours. All yours…” His ankle snaps under the weight of his own body, and Inigo plummets. His head smacks against his arms in the sticky black mud. He feels dizzy, and numb, but he can still move. Owain is still draped across his back, groaning miserably, but he’s alive.  _ He’s alive. _

Inigo props himself on raw, bloodied elbows, and crawls. The bridge is so close, so, so close. He hauls their bodies towards it, heavy with mud and rainwater that soaks through their clothes “Come on,” he cries, squinting to see anything at all. “Come on, dammit! I’ll do anything! Aren’t you there? Don’t you care at all?!” Owain’s legs are dead weight, dragging fruitlessly behind them. His breathing is shallow, pressed hot against the back of Inigo’s neck. It is the only source of warmth left between the two of them. The frigid wind makes Inigo’s fingers stiff, but he can still use them to tear at any purchase the soft ground offers, and use it to drag as far forward as he can possibly muster.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, his eyes, even his teeth. Every nerve in his body pulsates, pulled taut like guitar strings. His arms burn, searing with each and every motion. Any ounce of dexterity he’s ever possessed is long gone, replaced with fraught, disjointed jabs at the ground. “We could’ve made it!” he sobs, shivering all over. “We could’ve… We almost… We…”

Something brushes up against his scalp. Evidently, Owain still has the energy to lift his unbroken hand. He uses it to comb the knots out of Inigo’s hair, still damp from the rain. “Shhhh,” he soothes quietly into the nape of his best friend’s neck. “It’s… Okay. You’re okay.” His fingers move in a weak, stilted manner, plucking at strands as gently as he can manage. They pull every now and then, or stall altogether, but nevertheless they succeed in calming Inigo from his blaspheming.

He lays his head down in the grass, cries against the gods softened into pathetic whimpers and full-body tremors. He feels like he’s been torn to pieces, every limb disconnected from his torso. None of them even hurt anymore, but he still can’t force up the strength to move them. Whatever otherworldly thing that possessed him to get this far has abandoned his poor, maimed body. He sighs. “And here I thought I was the reasonable one between us.”

The noise Owain makes in reply is less like a laugh, and more like an abrupt exhale from his nose. It’s close enough. “Inigo…” he murmurs, barely audible.

Before there’s even time to process a response, Owain continues, more insistent this time. “Inigo.” His voice picks up in volume.

\--

" _ Inigo! _ " Frantic whispering is what wakes him with a start, and he jolts instinctively away. The shape looming over him is dark, but familiar. "You were having a nightmare," it says, in Owain's distinct, lofty drawl. After a few quick blinks, Inigo is able to vaguely make out his features in the shadows of the tent. His hair, clumped on one side with dried blood, and the gentle slope of his shoulders. Inigo sighs, relieved.

"So I was," he murmurs, reaching a hand up in a drowsy, listless haze. His fingers brush across the haphazard patch job dressing an injury to his sword arm, stiff and bruised, but otherwise exactly the way it should be. Owain is cold, and silent far longer than he ought to be.

His figure shifts, sidling closer to Inigo's makeshift bedding, a thin, worn blanket and the topmost layer of his own clothing. "Would you like to talk about it?" He won't look directly at Inigo. Instead, his head is turned towards the flap in the tent, where dim starlight peeks through. 

Inigo stares up at the ceiling. "No."

Another beat of silence. "Okay."

Owain crosses his legs. His hands fidget restlessly on his lap. Even drenched in shadow, Inigo can clearly picture the motion. Awkward fiddling with his mother's wedding band, twisting it over the ring finger of his right hand, or slipping it off to roll it between his palms. Long-held nervous habits that break through even his most carefully crafted facades. "I'm…" Owain inhales, steels himself to continue. "I'm sorry."

Something inside of Inigo wants to be angry. He nearly died today.  _ Owain  _ nearly died today. Their lives, over in an instant. All for a couple of dull gems and a shield. It's infuriating. It makes Inigo's chest ache, heavy with coals. An apology now, after all they've suffered through together, is an insult, a lit match.

But Inigo is tired, and grateful for another day survived, despite any asterisks placed over it. Fatigue dampens the rage sizzling beneath, and he closes his eyes. "Don't be. You're still alive, aren't you?" He perishes the remnants of Owain's broken, battered visage from his thoughts, and hopefully, his dreams. "That's all that matters."

Owain's silhouette blurs as he curls in on himself, shoulders hunched around his knees. It's quiet again. Inigo tries to listen intently to anything that may fill the space: a stray fox rustling the brush at the base of a tree, or crickets chirping, singing to one another. None of it is loud enough, distracting enough, to overpower the thump of his own heartbeat.

Finally, Owain speaks. "I wasn't afraid to die," he blurts. The words come out so fast that Inigo needs a moment to process them, and as soon as he has, Owain continues, his head ducked low, "I wasn't even afraid."

It should be surprising. It should elicit something more than a dull ache inside of Inigo, but he has little else to offer. He outstretches a hand in the dark, searching for one of Owain's own. He finds it after a bit of prodding, curling his fingers around the palm. "I know," he says, soft. "But I was."

Owain exhales some of the tension from his body. His hand turns over tentatively, fingers slotting into the spaces between Inigo's. "Thank you. For staying by my side," he murmurs, in a voice almost approaching his usual lilt. The Owain from their childhoods isn't lost to them. Not yet. Inigo, for all the grief in his heart, allows himself to smile at the notion.

"'Course."

Owain sighs, teetering dangerously on unabashed fondness. He looks down, but his expression is difficult to make out in the low light. "Wherever would I be without you, Inigo of the Indigo Skies?" His thumb rubs circles into the back of Inigo's hand, light as snow.

The intimacy isn't lost on Inigo, and he lies for a moment, battling with how and what to feel about it, or whether he should feel anything at all. His first instinct is self consciousness, stuttering, awkward embarrassment that warms his cheeks. The next is, strangely, delight. Something giddy bubbles up into his throat, an intense feeling unlike any he's felt in a long while. He breathes out a stilted laugh, laid entirely bare. "If I remember correctly, you would have drowned in a lake when we were kids," Inigo replies. Smiling feels so unnatural anymore, but somehow he can't get himself to stop.

"It was  _ one  _ time!" Owain huffs indignantly, falling back into their usual banter with practiced ease. He pauses, laughs along with Inigo. "Do you always make it a habit to rescue wayward princes?"

Inigo's free hand twitches, before freezing entirely in place. "No." He shakes his head and takes the risk, raising it up to brush against Owain's face, cold to the touch. "Just one."

Owain makes a startled sound, quiet, but he doesn't shy away. A moment passes between them. "Inigo…" He sounds uncertain. Inigo isn't.

"C'mere," he says, gently tugging. "It's too cold." His little nest isn't exactly designed for two, but he scoots as far to one side as he can and lifts up the blanket in offering. Owain tilts his head, like he's examining it, then caves, hand pulling away from Inigo's to brace the ground beneath him. An arm props his head up like a pillow. The other hovers, not quite sure where to go. Inigo takes it and presses it to his hip. "This okay?"

He can finally make out Owain's features from this close, beneath all the dirt and dried blood. His expression is better than Inigo could have ever conjured up in his dreams, his teenage summer love fantasies. Owain is doe-eyed, brows raised in mild surprise. He glances down and then back up, nervous. It's easy to imagine him chewing on the inner part of his bottom lip. He nods, and Inigo shifts to pull the blanket up over them both. Owain's fingers pluck at the hem of his shirt idly, but after a few seconds, he seems to relax, letting them rest on the small of Inigo's back. They're freezing. He startles, entire body seizing in shock.

Owain giggles at him, the same way he did at ten years old shoving ice cubes down the collar of Inigo's shirt. When he jolts, Owain pulls him in tighter, delighted.

"Have I ever told you that I hate you?" Inigo snaps, pushing his face away. Owain is wearing the biggest grin he's had in years, squished under a relentless palm.

He's lucky the sound of his laughter is therapy all its own.

“Were you not the one who said it was too frigid to lie alone?” Owain chirps, slipping into theatrics like they come more naturally to him than breathing. “Surely my dearest archrival is a better man than to go back on his word!” The look on his face is a masterpiece, a portrait nearly lost to their ravaged world. Inigo loves it, loves  _ Owain.  _

He curses himself for thinking such a thought in the here and now, when their noses are so close to each other. It makes him feel self conscious, hyper aware of the places the two of them are making contact. Where Owain’s ice-cold hand presses against Inigo’s back, avoiding a bruise just above where his wrist rests comfortably on his side, Inigo’s palm curled over Owain’s shoulder, lying atop an age-old battle scar. The bend of a knee brushing a thigh, the rise and fall of a chest beneath curious fingertips. Tentative, uncertain.

Inigo desperately needs to save face. “Perhaps I hadn’t realized just how eager you would be to cuddle with me,” he says, but he doesn’t break away so much as an inch. Convincing.

It doesn’t need to be. Owain scoffs, but he presses no further than that. Instead, the two watch each other with some manner of trepidation, anxious to move any closer, to so much as twitch a finger. Inigo’s face is hot enough to melt titanium. It has to be noticeable. He glances away and swallows his nerves. “Owain… I’m really glad you’re still here,” he murmurs. How hopelessly vague.

Why must there be so many soft ways to say “dead?”

_ No longer with us. _

_ Passed on. _

_ Gone. _

No amount of flowery language could ever lessen the blow, could ever change the irrefutable truth of dying. Inigo knows this better than most. He’s cheated death enough to know the needling sting of its inevitability. He can’t take back the final, bloodcurdling scream of his mother, nor the smell of burnt flesh as his hometown was set alight in a single, horrible moment. Yet, he feels no wiser for it. Even the very thought of verbalizing death reduces him to a trembling little boy again, terrified that anything in his arms will crumble to ash, like in all of his worst nightmares. He won’t entertain the notion. Not while Owain is here, holding him so close, now-warm skin and warmer blood.

Inigo sighs, continues, “Ylisse needs her chosen one.” He manages a smile again, and kicks Owain’s ankle with all the force of a feather drifting to the ground. “Could you imagine how dull a world without you would be?”

There’s a pause. Owain looks damn near close to tears, but he looks defiantly up at the tent ceiling to blink them away. The insistent sniffling isn’t helping him. He gets his tendency towards strong emotional reactions from Brady, no doubt. “No, I suppose I couldn’t,” he murmurs, looking back. The sincerity is deafening, piercing Inigo directly in his lungs. Owain closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

Breathtaking. Ruddy cheeks and all. Inigo is as smitten now as he was when Owain was struggling even to carry his sword with two little hands. “For what?” he ventures, because he can, and he wants Owain to keep talking. Wants to fall asleep to the sound of his voice.

“For reminding me why I’m still alive.”

**Author's Note:**

> TWO fanfics?? in one day??? amazing!
> 
> i don't have anything more witty to add here i'm just happy to get this out of my drafts. i hope u guys enjoyed it, and if u did, maybe consider commenting? i spent a long time on this
> 
> twitter is @lesboba as always


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